Fury of Desire (-4

by Coreene Callahan

  The name made Wick tense. Tanzenmed. A Dragonkind prison so terrible, males begged for death, a merciful kill when faced with the prospect of imprisonment there.

  “I never got that far.” Thanks to Venom. His best friend had risked everything. Given up a cushy life inside Dragonkind’s aristocracy to rescue him. Throat gone tight, he glanced over his shoulder. As always, Venom stood at the ready, willing to back him up at a moment’s notice. Just like the night he’d defied the general and intervened to save his life. “Which club did you come up in?”

  “Rodin’s.” A hard gleam in his eyes, Azrad’s nostrils flared. “You?”

  “The general’s.”

  “My sire’s club,” Venom said at the same time, his voice overlapping Wick’s, revealing what neither of them ever had before. “Rodin’s right hand back in the day.”

  “Jesus H. Christ. A fight club run by Dragonkind elite?” Grabbing a chair, Rikar dragged it over and joined their circle. Concern in his pale eyes, he shook his head. “The practice has been outlawed for hundreds of years.”

  “Doesn’t mean the clubs don’t exist. The new law simply pushed them underground.” One shitkicker crossed over the other, Bastian leaned back against the table edge. The pose was relaxed. Wick knew better. His commander didn’t do nonthreatening. “Thought they only used human fighters, though.”

  “Probably still do,” Wick said, a prickle of unease nipping at his nape. He didn’t want to talk about it. Hated the power of recall and what it did to him. “But they bet on boys too.”

  “I entered the ring for the first time on my seventh birthday.”

  “Same.” A bad taste entered his mouth. Fuck. No more secrets. Nothing to hide behind anymore. Wick flexed his hands, not knowing what to do with the knowledge… or how to act now that his brothers-in-arms knew the truth. “They kept me caged by day and fighting by night until—”

  “You went into the change,” Azrad said, completing his sentence.

  Wick nodded. “After that, I was too much of a risk. I was slotted for Tanzenmed, but Venom intervened, pulling me out before the general loaded me on the truck.”

  Resulting in the death of Venom’s sire.

  Wick swallowed past the knot in his throat. Patricide. Jesus, what an awful burden to bear. One Venom carried every day. A moment in time that had put a price on both their heads and sealed their fate. An act that made them instant fugitives, sending them running with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

  “I did what was needed,” Venom murmured, shrugging off the sacrifice. He always did, downplaying his bravery. But Wick knew the truth. That night had taken a terrible toll on both of them. The strain in his friend’s voice broadcasted that fact loud and clear. “But you were already inside Tanzenmed by then.”

  Azrad nodded. “Godforsaken place.”

  No doubt.

  Established to train the elite, the prison used live targets—Dragonkind sentenced to death, males drawn from the fight clubs, or anyone the Archguard wanted silenced—in a series of war games designed to teach fledging dragons how to fight. Spread out over vast acreage in rural Russia, the compound kept the live targets enclosed in a limited area via an electronic collar, allowing the hunters to track and kill their prey. Packed with explosives, the collars would detonate, blowing a male’s head off if he crossed the boundary to flee the compound.

  Death via C-4. Or try to fight your way out.

  A depraved practice with an equally revolting endgame. Once imprisoned, no one walked out of Tanzenmed alive.

  Which begged a question, didn’t it?

  His gaze narrowed, he looked Azrad over.

  Quick on the uptake, Venom caught his mental string. “The compound is reputed to be impenetrable. Only one way in. No way out, so…”

  Rikar huffed. “Wanna explain how you managed to escape, Azrad?”

  “Wrong question, my brother,” Bastian said.

  “Exactly.” Intuition spiked, and Wick growled. Ah, yes… the plot thickened. “How isn’t important, Rikar. It’s the who we want to know.”

  “Fucking hell,” Rikar growled.

  “Nian,” Venom said, the anger in his tone unmistakable. “You’re in the bastard’s back pocket.”

  “No.” Sitting up straighter, Azrad shook his head. The violent movement backed up his denial, making his irises shimmer like blue diamonds. “I used the Archguard asshole to get out of that hellhole… nothing more.”

  “Nothing is ever that easy.” Pushing away from the table edge, Bastian stood. Suspicion made the air crackle with hostility. Patience worthy of a commander stayed his hand. “What did you promise him… my head on a platter?”

  “Never,” Azrad said. “Nian came to me three months ago with a proposition.”

  “Why you?” B asked.

  “I earned a certain reputation in prison.”

  “Oh really?” Sarcasm out in full force, Rikar flashed his pearly whites, half smile, mostly snarl. “Mind sharing what that was exactly?”

  His gaze predatory flat, Azrad cracked his knuckles. “I kill whatever comes near me.”

  Wick snorted. “Handy.”

  “It worked for me. So here’s how it breaks down.” Azrad glanced from him to Bastian, then back again. “You know how the pampered bastards think. Nian is the same. He needed a warrior outside the Archguard’s grid, a player they’d never see coming, never mind miss. He offered me a deal… freedom and a first-class ticket to Seattle for one thing.”

  “A face-to-face with me.”

  “Bingo.” Azrad shrugged. “The deal is: I get close enough to facilitate the meeting. After that, I’m to get in your good graces… in tight enough to feed him information about Bastian and the Nightfury pack. I never agreed to that part of the bargain, but…” Trailing off, the male frowned at his bruised knuckles. “I wanted to meet you, so lying to him about the spying shit seemed like the play to make.”

  “Not a bad plan,” Venom said, sounding impressed.

  “It got me here, didn’t it?”

  Venom rolled his eyes.

  Azrad grinned, then smoothed his expression. As amusement slid into seriousness once more, the male met B’s gaze. “Look, I know you don’t trust me. I don’t blame you. If someone showed up claiming to be my blood kin, I’d hurt him first and ask questions second. All I ask is that you run the DNA. Give me that much, at least.”

  Expression impassive, Bastian eyed the male. “No promises, but… give us a few days. The blood work will get run. In the meantime—”

  “In the meantime,” Azrad said. “I’m into something else you should know about.”

  Curiosity nudged Wick. “What’s the cherry on top?”

  “I’m inside the enemy camp.” A nasty gleam in his eyes, Azrad smiled, the expression making him look like a kingpin. A dangerous one with his finger on the trigger. “I figured you might need a gesture of goodwill to take me seriously, so I infiltrated the Razorback ranks over two weeks ago.”

  “Christ,” Rikar said, looking like he’d been hit upside the head. With an axe, sharp side up.

  Venom blinked. “For real?”

  “For real. The bastards think I’m one of them.”

  “A spy.” Wick grinned. He couldn’t help it. The plan struck him as ingenious. Smart. Bold. A gutsy move by a gusty male. Right up Wick’s alley. “That’s how you knew about Jamison.”

  Dark-blue eyes met his. “Razorback chatter and some research put the female in the mix. You ruffled some feathers when you stole Tania out from underneath Ivar. Logic suggested you’d go after the sister next.”

  Rikar dropped another f-bomb. “We’re that predictable?”

  “Only when it comes to females.” Heavy metal on his face winking in the low light, Azrad stared at the Nightfury first in command. “Otherwise, you’re a fucking mystery. Good thing too. With the Razorbacks hunting you, secrecy is—”

  “So little brother wants to join our cause.” When Azrad nodded, B approached on silent feet
. Skirting the end of the coffee bar, his commander rolled up beside his maybe brother. Azrad froze. Wick didn’t blame him. As calm as B looked, everyone in the room knew he wasn’t playing. Raising his foot, B nudged the side of Azrad’s chair. “What’s in it for you?”

  “Payback.”

  “Ivar piss you off or something?”

  “Too soon to tell. I haven’t met him yet.” His head tilted back, the male looked up at Bastian, meeting his bright-green eyes. “I’m still working my way up the Razorback food chain. But Ivar’s just a stepping stone, one I’ll use to catch a bigger fish.”

  Wick hummed. “You’re talking about Rodin.”

  “I owe him a lifetime of pain.” Azrad smiled, the show of teeth animalistic. “Besides, Rodin and his cronies are bankrolling the Razorbacks.”

  Looming above them, interest sparked in B’s gaze. “Do you have proof of that?”

  “Not yet, but—”

  An alarm went off, beeping double time.

  Azrad glanced at his watch. Midnight on the dot. “Nian’s on the hunt for it. You interested in talking to him?”

  “You got a go bag with a computer here?”

  The male nodded.

  Bastian tipped his chin. “Then set it up.”

  He didn’t need to be asked twice. The second B agreed, Azrad pushed out of his seat so fast the chair wobbled. As he turned to his warriors, Eye Patch handed him a black backpack. Slinging it over his shoulder, he crossed to the large table in the center of the room and went to work: unzipping the bag, pulling out a laptop, fingers flying as he typed in coordinates and set up the video chat.

  Wall-mounted above a cluster of club chairs, a large flat screen TV flipped on. Wick strode over for a better look. The video prompt box blinked on center screen, washing the coffee shop’s pale walls with bright-blue light. Smart move on Azrad’s part. The wide-angle webcam hooked on top of the TV would capture the entire room, allowing Nian to view all of them from the other side of the world.

  Azrad tapped a few more keys and—

  “About flipping time.”

  “Good to see you too, Nian.”

  Seated behind a desk, a dark-haired male stared out at them. Eyes the color of opals swept the inside of Starbucks. “Which one of you is Bastian?”

  “Right here.” Impassive, Bastian sat down, unloading his weight on a club chair. As he set his shitkickers on the coffee table, he met the youngest member of the Archguard head-on. With more growl in his voice than patience, he said, “What the fuck do you want, Nian?”

  “Any number of things,” the male said. “But first things first. You need to get your warriors the hell out of Prague. Rodin’s hatching a scheme… one that includes Gage and Haider’s execution. At nightfall, a death squad will be sent out to secure them.”

  Wick bared his teeth on a snarl.

  “Goddamn it,” Venom growled.

  “Exactly.” A row of bookcases behind him, Nian leaned forward in his office chair. Not bothering to hide his concern, he nailed Bastian with shimmering multihued eyes. “I don’t know where the Metallics sleep, so I can’t reach them. But if you can… do it. Tell them to stay out of dragon form. No flying. The city will be crawling with Rodin’s thugs come sundown. Tell them to contact me via this web link. I’ll smuggle them out of the city.”

  Lovely in theory. Big problem with its proposed execution.

  Wick didn’t trust the Archguard whelp any farther than he could throw him. No male in his right mind would. Especially considering Nian’s pedigree and history. Any number of possibilities might play out. The bastard could be in league with Rodin. He might be setting the leader of the Archguard up to take the fall for whatever scheme he had in the works. Could be lying through his teeth in order to lead the Metallics into a trap too. Any combination of which would see his brothers-in-arms murdered in cold blood.

  All losing propositions.

  “Sloan,” Wick said to his buddy standing sentry outside.

  “Here.”

  “Find a computer.”

  Scales clicked as Sloan shifted on a nearby rooftop. “What do you need?”

  “Warn the Metallics. Rodin’s got a price on their heads.” One ear on his commander’s conversation with Nian, Wick met his XO’s gaze. Rikar nodded, and he continued. “Tell ’em to get out of Prague. Under the radar. Most ricky-tick.”

  “Roger that.”

  The thump of boots on stairs came through mind-speak.

  The sound lit Wick up, making his muscles tighten and tension creep across his shoulders. He wanted to yell “hurry!” at his buddy. Wick stayed silent instead. Sloan would do his level best. But computers weren’t as reliable as mind-speak. The message might not get through or be picked up in time. The entire Nightfury pack had just been forced into a holding pattern. Nothing left to do now but pray Gage and Haider made it out in one piece.

  Chair springs squeaked as Nian shifted in his seat, bringing him closer to the computer screen. Forearms stacked on the desktop, he leaned in, picking up details, assessing the situation as he stared at Bastian. Holy Christ and a baseball bat. He’d expected fierce from the Nightfury commander. What he saw topped it. The male was more than warrior strong. Kick-ass with a healthy dose of dangerous, his vibe screamed “don’t mess with me,” and with Bastian’s green gaze pointed in his direction, Nian believed it. Every rumor. Every story. Every word whispered in dark corners about the male and his tactics.

  Lucky for him he sat half a world away. Safe enough. Out of range with an entire ocean between them. At least, Nian hoped so. Bastian no doubt possessed a long reach and many allies on both sides of the Atlantic. Males willing to do his bidding without question or at a moment’s notice.

  The thought wasn’t a pleasant one.

  Good thing he wasn’t faint of heart. Or without power of his own.

  Readjusting his position, Nian looked into the screen, out into an open room framed by large windows. Clustered behind Bastian’s chair, the Nightfuries backed their commander. Tall. Strong. Unwavering. Warriors driven to protect, every last one. Nian recognized the breed, but held the line, meeting each male’s gaze before returning his attention to Bastian. So far, so good. All systems were a go. Mission almost accomplished. Leading with the Gage and Haider angle had been a brilliant stroke of genius. The ploy had captured the Nightfury commander’s attention like nothing else could. Any fool could see Bastian cared about his comrades. His concern was palpable, fogging the air around him, coming through from over five thousand miles away. He wanted Gage and Haider safe. He wanted them secure. He wanted the pair home in Seattle.

  Perfect in every way.

  Ironic too. In his quest to bring Bastian down, Rodin—and his asinine scheme—had provided the one thing Nian needed above all else… an in with the Nightfury pack. Now he sat nose-to-screen with one of the most powerful males of his kind, minutes away from procuring the support he required to cut the leader of the Archguard off at the knees.

  But only if he played his cards right.

  Bastian wasn’t stupid. Then again, neither was he.

  Gaze still narrowed on him, Bastian lifted his boots from the coffee table. Shifting in the leather club chair, he leaned forward, feet planted on the floor, elbows on his knees, fingers laced between the spread of his thighs. The move brought him closer to the camera. Nian swallowed, resisting the urge to lean back… get out of range before things went apocalyptic. A stupid reaction. Bastian couldn’t touch him. Not right now anyway.

  “How did you come by the information, Nian?” Bastian asked, his voice soft. The melodic pitch pricked the nape of Nian’s neck, warning him without words. Something about the tone was off. Far too dangerous to ignore. “You in Rodin’s back pocket?”

  Nian shook his head. “No, but I’ve worked hard to cultivate his trust. I’m there now. He’s begun to confide in me. Any information I have comes directly from the bastard. You can trust it.”

  “Then tell me…” Same tone. Shivers rolled
down Nian’s spine as the Nightfury commander nailed him with shimmering green eyes. “What’s the real reason behind the roundup? What’s Rodin’s true intention?”

  Christ. Had he said smart earlier? Well, he’d meant brilliant. Bastian was astute in a way that made a male sit up and take notice. “He knows of Lothair’s death. Learned of it from someone in Seattle.”

  “Fucking hell.” Standing behind his commander’s chair, a blond, pale-eyed warrior scowled at him. “Ivar. The asshole’s been chatting with Rodin.”

  “I assume as much,” Nian said, dragging his focus from the blond warrior back to Bastian. “I can’t prove the connection yet, but I think Rodin is funding the Razorbacks. He’s running underground fight clubs and female slave auctions. Making a ton of money from both enterprises and—”

  “How do you know?” A knowing light in his eyes, Bastian tilted his head and stared at him, the glare full of predatory intent. “You been visiting Rodin’s playground?”

  Nian opened his mouth to answer.

  Bastian cut him off. “Why don’t you tell me about the female?”

  “What female?”

  “The one you purchased last week at an auction.”

  Surprise made him twitch. Recall made his throat go dry. Ah, Christ. Not good. He didn’t want anyone digging up that skeleton. It needed to stay buried, six feet under where it belonged. Otherwise, the truth of that night would get him killed. But even as Nian told himself to keep it under wraps, to remain impassive, calm, well able to deny the accusation, memory spun him in dangerous directions.

  Grace von Ziger. The beautiful blond with big brown eyes and gorgeous energy. Not that most males noticed. His talent for illusion had unearthed her deception when she woke in his home. An HE female—rarest of the rare—Grace was a zinmera, so evolved she could disguise her connection to the Meridian. The chameleon-like ability served her well, allowing her to fool members of his kind into believing she was low energy, prompting them to overlook her.

  Too bad that didn’t apply to him.